“Besides,” she said, “you can just tell an original, can’t you? I spent two hours at the Mondrian show at MOMA. You must have gone.”

“Twice. Once when it opened and again just before it closed the end of January.”

“Then surely you know what I mean. When you’ve seen the actual originals, not just reproductions of them in books, you wouldn’t be taken in by a copy like this.” She smiled. “Not that it’s not very good for what it is, Bernie.”

“Well, we can’t all be originals,” I said. “What did you mean when you said you’d miss it?”

“Did I say that? I was talking to myself, really. Bernie, where are my panties?”

“I swear I’m not wearing them.”

“Oh, here they are. Now how do you suppose they got all the way over here?”

“They flew on wings of love,” I said. I got out of bed myself and turned off Mel Tormé. “There’s something I keep forgetting to ask you. Are you free a week from Thursday?”

“A week from Thursday. Not this Thursday but the following Thursday.”

“Right.”

“Thursday week, the English would say.”

“They probably would,” I said, “and that actually ties in with what I’m about to suggest. See, I thought-”

“Actually, I’m not.”

“You’re not what?”

“Free. On Thursday week.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is it something you can get out of?”

“Not really.”

“Because if you could postpone it, we could-”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, Thursday would have been best, but I suppose we could let it go until Friday.”

“That’s Friday week.”

“Right. A week from this coming Friday. We could-”

“We can’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Actually,” she said, “I’m afraid I’ll be tied up the whole weekend, Bernie, from Thursday evening on.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Sorry.”

“I was sort of planning on us spending the weekend together, but-”